


Lift Me From the Ground

by thesweetestnerd



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bottom Miya Atsumu, Canon Compliant, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff, Kiyoomi and Atsumu are just really drunk, M/M, Nonsense, Shower Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29454702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesweetestnerd/pseuds/thesweetestnerd
Summary: The table is small enough, the distance between them minimal – he could do it.He should do it.He’s going to. He touches – no, caresses Miya’s face, running his fingers over the lines of his forehead and then down to his cheek. Miya is so close that he can feel his breath on him. He watches Kiyoomi with a dreamy expression.“Whatcha doin’, Omi?” Miya whispers. “Are we about to kiss?”
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 55
Kudos: 729
Collections: Team MSBY Black Jackal Haikyuu





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For sakuatsu fluff week 2021 :') Based on the prompt: "Is this the moment that we kiss?"
> 
> I LOVE them, your honor.

Kiyoomi should learn to say ‘no’ to his teammates. He used to be great at it – it’s a two letter word, barely requires any effort on his part and was a prominent part of his vocabulary, but not even Kiyoomi can reject Miya’s begging. Usually, Kiyoomi can placate him by attending one outing a month, and unfortunately for him, he came up with excuses for the last three weeks, and so here he is at one of the more upscale bars in the area, boxed in a booth with Miya, Bokuto and Hinata.

Hangovers are in the top three of his least favorite feelings, right below dirt under his fingernails and somebody sneezing near him. They aren’t worth the reduced social anxiety or the short-lived amusement he gets from vodka shots or fruity cocktails.

Yet, here he is again, downing his third consecutive shot because another thing he can’t say no to is a challenge, and that is his true downfall. 

As usual, Miya started it. The entire outing was his idea and the rest of the team was all too willing. Kiyoomi never wants to give his team the impression that he’s cold or uncaring because he’s not – he just likes his comforts, one of which includes not being near most people – so he does the bare minimum and sticks around for just long enough to make them happy. 

Sometimes, though, on nights like tonight, he gets sucked into the chaos of it all. 

“I bet ya,” Miya declares to Bokuto, Hinata and Kiyoomi (Meian and Tomas went to get drinks; Inunaki is hitting on a poor, unassuming woman by the bar; Barnes is ‘too old’ for these things) “That I can outdrink all of ya.” 

“No you can’t!” protests Bokuto. “You always say that!”

“Yeah, but we’ve never actually bet on it,” Miya persists. 

“Is that supposed to change your tolerance?” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. Miya’s antics, at least, are always entertaining, if not extremely stupid. Kiyoomi often finds himself watching him on these nights. For someone who acts like he’s God’s gift to mankind, Miya isn’t at all as charming and seductive as he thinks he is.

He’s goofy, a little awkward, but he always seems to get a stranger to dance with him anyway – though never more than that. Miya is too devoted to the team to leave any of them behind, and Kiyoomi can respect that. 

“Obviously!” Miya is already kind of drunk. They always pregame these things, but Kiyoomi doesn’t like to get incoherent before he even makes it to the bar. The rest of his team doesn’t share the same sentiment. “It’s a competition. My body knows that, so it’ll react how it should.”

Hinata snorts. “I don’t think that’s how it works, Tsumu.”

“I’m in, though,” Bokuto decides. “It sounds fun! I’ll go get us shots. What does everyone want?”

“Tequila,” says Hinata with no hesitation. Miya scrunches his nose at him.

“You’re not gonna make it very far with that choice, Shoyo,” he teases. “Just vodka for me, Bo, thanks.”

“Omi?” 

“I’m not participating,” Kiyoomi says, very firmly. He’s sipping on his own mixed drink, at a slow and steady pace and he would like to keep it that way.

“Ugh, don’t be like that!” Hinata cries. “Come on – it’s team bonding!”

“Don’t bother him too much, Sho,” Miya says, and he levels Kiyoomi with a stare he knows well – the taunting, smug, know-it-all expression that is a permanent fixture of his face. “He’s too scared he’s gonna lose.”

Miya is baiting him – he’s baiting him, and Kiyoomi is completely aware of that fact, and yet some instinctual, reactionary part of him is still determined to make him eat his words. 

“I would crush you,” he says simply. “There would be no competition.”

“I somehow don’t think that’s true,” Miya muses. “Ya don’t drink enough to have a tolerance, and Bokuto has, like, forty pounds on ya at least. You’d be last place, Omi.”

“Absolutely untrue,” Kiyoomi snaps. He’s annoyed now, which he knows is exactly what Miya is going for, but what’s he supposed to do – ignore him? His pride won’t allow it. He has to shut him up. “I want vodka as well,” he tells Bokuto. “The expensive kind, not the gasoline shit that Miya likes.”

“Well, well, well.” God, Kiyoomi is going to wipe that smug smirk right off Miya’s face. “Now it’s a competition.” 

Kiyoomi will blame his lapse in judgment on the mixed drink that he quickly drains – that, and stupid Miya Atsumu. 

Bokuto comes back with a tray filled with shots – three each, to start, and Miya claps his hands together. 

“Okay, last one to tap out wins,” he declares. “Bottoms up!” 

He raises his shot glass and Bokuto and Hinata tap theirs to it. Reluctantly, Kiyoomi does the same, and then all at once, they throw them back.

Kiyoomi holds back a grimace. Even good vodka tastes like gasoline, but he can’t show weakness.

“Easy,” Hinata says, but he’s already unsteady on his feet. “Oh, I _love_ this song! Should we dance? I think we should dance.”

“Sho, the competition…” Miya is exasperated. “Ya’d think he would’ve gotten better at handling his alcohol in Brazil.” 

“Well, this is his fifth shot.” Bokuto frowns. 

“I can easily handle two more!” Hinata insists. “Here, here, let’s take the next one, and then we dance?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, but downs his next two shots in quick succession – it’s impressive, and a bit horrifying. Kiyoomi already feels a little lighter, and so he snorts out a laugh when Hinata starts bouncing on the soles of his feet.

“Dance now?”

“Ya didn’t even give us a chance to take ours, damn.” Miya shakes his head. “Up for another, Omi?” 

“Sure.”

He, Miya, and Bokuto take their next shots. This one burns less than the first, though Kiyoomi wishes he still had some of his sweet drink left to chase it. He considers going to get another one, but going all the way to the bar seems like a lot of work. 

“I’ll dance with you, Hinata!” Bokuto cries now. “One more shot, then let’s go.”

“Ya’ll are no fun,” Miya whines. “Are ya really tappin’ out of the competition this early?”

“I’ll join back later,” Hinata promises, even though Kiyoomi is pretty sure the rules don’t work like that. He figures he should say as much, so Hinata knows.

“You forfeit if you leave now, then it’s between Miya and I.”

Hinata smiles, but it’s not his usual sunshine-and-rainbows smile – no, this is a smirk, and it’s menacing. 

“Have fun, you two,” he sings, and then he hops off to the dance floor, Bokuto trailing behind. Kiyoomi watches them go, bemused.

Atsumu brings Kiyoomi’s attention back to him. He’s wearing a smile of his own, though this one is more dopey and innocent. He looks like an over-excited school-boy. 

“Well, Omi, just us then,” he says. “Can ya handle one more?”

“I can handle plenty more,” Kiyoomi lies. He’s fully light-headed now, and the flashing lights from the dance floor illuminate Miya with reds and purples, highlighting his grin. 

They take the next shot. 

“Lemme go get the next round then – my treat.” 

Kiyoomi nods, and he’s vaguely aware of how complacent he’s being in this whole ridiculous scheme, but he’s far too drunk to care. He watches Miya go. He slips through the crowd easily, shooting charming smiles at anyone he may bump into, waving to their teammates, all scattered across the room. 

Miya is captivating, Kiyoomi thinks. That’s the word for him. It’s incredible how one single person can command so much attention, but Miya was born for the spotlight. As impulsive and bullheaded as Miya can be, as awkward and ridiculous and sometimes just plain stupid, he makes up for it with a natural charisma. 

Kiyoomi continues to stare at Miya’s back as he talks up the bartender, a pretty blonde woman, probably in her late twenties. Kiyoomi doesn’t need to see Miya’s face to know he’s oozing charm. The woman is smiling, ignoring all of her other customers in favor of nodding her head enthusiastically at Miya, and filling up his tray with all the shots he could ask for.

It would be funny if it didn’t irritate Kiyoomi for reasons unbeknownst to him. 

“Omi! I’m back!” Miya announces his arrival as if Kiyoomi hasn’t been tracking his every movement since he left the table. “Hope ya didn’t miss me too much.”

Kiyoomi hums in response because he doesn’t trust his drunken tongue. It’s too pliant right now – he could say an array of embarrassing things in response to that. Maybe Miya knows because he smirks. 

“Ready to lose?”

Kiyoomi is thrown back into reality – the competition. Right. He needs to kick Miya’s ass so he can wipe the smug look off of his face. Priorities. 

“You wish, Miya.” 

He doesn’t even taste the next shot, or the next, or the...

“I gotta admit, Omi,” Miya slurs, and Kiyoomi is probably going to fall over soon, but if he can just hold out a little longer, he’ll be victorious. “Yer stronger than I thought.”

“I dunno why you still try,” Kiyoomi manages. The table suddenly looks so comfortable. He could take a nap right now, the bass thrumming in his ears be damned. “I always win.”

“Not always,” Miya insists. “Sometimes I beat ya.”

“Name one time.” 

Miya puts a finger to his chin, as if deep in thought. His eyes brighten as if a switch was flipped, and he points said finger at Kiyoomi, barely poking his chest. “Aha! I beat ya that one time when ya couldn’t receive my serve and yer team lost the game – remember, back at training camp.”

“That was _seven years ago,_ ” Kiyoomi barks out an incredulous laugh. Everything seems so funny now. “That doesn’t count.” 

“I’m sure I’ve won other times,” Miya muses, true concern falling over his face, and Kiyoomi has the insane thought that he should smooth out the worry-lines with his hands. The table is small enough, the distance between them minimal – he could do it.

He should do it.

He’s going to. He touches – no, _caresses_ Miya’s face, running his fingers over the lines of his forehead and then down to his cheek. Miya is so close that he can feel his breath on him. He watches Kiyoomi with a dreamy expression.

“Whatcha doin’, Omi?” Miya whispers. “Are we about to kiss?”

“What? No.” Kiyoomi shakes his head frantically. He keeps his hand in place. It feels too heavy to move. Miya’s face is too warm. “Why would we kiss?” 

“I thought we had somethin’ goin’ on here.” Miya gestures to himself, then to Kiyoomi, confusion in his eyes. “Kinda like a flirtationship?”

Kiyoomi slowly comes down from incredulousness and lands on slightly dubious, but the more he thinks about it, the more the horrifying realization becomes clear that Miya may be _right_. He thinks back to all of the away games where they sat on the bus together and bickered over the music they would be playing on their shared headphones, or the way Miya would make eyes at Kiyoomi in the changing room, almost leering at his half-naked body, and Kiyoomi would bite out something insulting like, ‘ _take a picture, it’ll last longer’._

Maybe...they weren’t insults.

They also have this tendency to turn everything into an adrenaline-fueled, charged competition where the only reward was the humiliation of the other and the bragging rights that would linger for years to come. That’s probably not...entirely platonic, if he really considers it. 

“Shit,” Kiyoomi hisses. His hand is still on Miya’s face and he should remove it, but Miya is rubbing his face against it like a cat, and Kiyoomi _likes_ cats, so he doesn’t _want_ to. “Do we have a thing?”

“See!” Miya pulls back to exclaim in victory. “I told ya we did.”

“Huh.”

“Why else would ya touch me like that, Omi?” Miya croons his name, like a sweet song. “I thought it was finally gonna be our moment.”

“I just...felt compelled to touch you,” he says honestly. “I have no clue why.” 

“I think it’s ‘cause ya like me,'' Miya teases and he stands up just to plop right back down on Kiyoomi’s side of the booth. “I really like ya, actually, Omi. Couldn’t ya tell? I’m always tryin’ to get yer attention.”

Now, it’s Miya who reaches up and touches Kiyoomi’s skin. If it was anyone else, Kiyoomi would recoil, but this is Miya, and his touch feels like slipping into a sauna. He instantly relaxes into his hand, and Miya smiles. It’s a soft smile – gentle, genuine. 

“I thought you wanted everybody’s attention,” Kiyoomi manages before he turns completely to Jell-O. 

“Just yers, Omi,” he murmurs. “Hey, Omi. Is _this_ the moment we kiss?”

“I think so,” Kiyoomi breathes back. Miya moves his hand to the back of Kiyoomi’s head and brings him in for a searing kiss. He has plush lips, skilled and tentative lips, mapping Kiyoomi out like some uncharted territory. Kiyoomi dives into it, drowning in the sensation of Miya’s lips on his. He should’ve done this _months_ ago. 

“Hey!” They’re interrupted with a series of cheers and whoops. Kiyoomi startles and comes face-to-face with Hinata and Bokuto. Both are clearly in another dimension of drunkenness, but they have enough coherence to figure out what is going on in front of them. 

“It worked, Tsumu!” Hinata cries. “Just like you said it would!”

Kiyoomi turns to glare at Miya, who’s flushing brighter than Hinata’s hair. He shrugs and grins, sheepish. 

“I didn’t say I always play fair, Omi.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ya gonna let me in yer bed, Omi?” he mumbles, and Kiyoomi’s skin breaks out in violent goosebumps. “I’m gettin’ sick of imaginin’ ya when yer right across the hall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my peace offering to the sakuatsu community after dropping that last chapter of [ The Story of Us ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28620252/chapters/70148025) on you...please love me. <3
> 
> This is the smutty continuation of chapter one. :')

It’s about the time of night that Kiyoomi is ready to leave the bar. There’s only one problem with that – he’s currently locked in a passionate, sloppy, sweaty embrace with Miya Atsumu.

He tells himself he’s going to pull away but then Miya will do something magical with his tongue and Kiyoomi is once again left tightening his grip and panting into his mouth.

They’ve been making out for way too long but Kiyoomi isn’t sure he has the will-power to stop it. This, as it turns out, is going to be his downfall, the nail in the coffin on his perfect control and composure.

They managed to banish Bokuto and Hinata to the other end of the bar. Since they were apparently in on Miya’s scheme, they went willingly, with lots of exaggerated winking and humming. Hinata promised he would keep Tomas, Meian and Inunaki busy so they wouldn’t get interrupted. 

And they’ve been doing this ever since – touching, kissing, falling onto each other with heavy limbs and low-lidded eyes. Kiyoomi _has_ to call it but Miya’s warm and it’s cold outside, so he should stay a few minutes, to conserve more body heat. 

“Hey, Omi,” Miya detaches their lips but stays close enough that his words vibrate against Kiyoomi’s mouth. “It’s late, d’ya wanna go home?”

Miya sounds just as good as he tastes. His voice is as rough as gravel and thick like honey. His accent comes out so much stronger when he’s drunk and Kiyoomi loves it, would play it back like his favorite song. 

“Okay,” Kiyoomi agrees. Neither of them make any move to get up from the booth. Miya dips his lips down to Kiyoomi’s exposed neck and kisses a searing trail up to his ear. 

“Ya gonna let me in yer bed, Omi?” he mumbles, and Kiyoomi’s skin breaks out in violent goosebumps. “I’m gettin’ sick of imaginin’ ya when yer right across the hall.” 

“Come on,” Kiyoomi demands, awake and alert as he’s ever been now. He shoves Miya out of the booth and stumbles after him. Miya holds out his hand to steady Kiyoomi and he takes it. He doesn’t let go once he’s gotten himself upright. “We should tell Hinata and Bokuto we’re leaving.”

“Ah, they’ll figure it out.” Miya promises. He rubs his thumb over Kiyoomi’s knuckles and looks up at him from under his lashes. Miya has unfairly long eyelashes. He’s too pretty for his own good, really – his cheeks are rosy, his lips are red and shiny with their shared spit. Kiyoomi pulls him by their intertwined hand and kisses him reflexively and it takes him another five minutes to get them untangled again. 

By the time their cab arrives, Kiyoomi is electrified, and he practically jumps Atsumu as soon as he shuts the door behind him. It’s outrageous. Kiyoomi is obviously not in his right mind, and he makes a promise to himself that he will give this cab driver the best tip he’s ever received in his life, but right now there’s no place in his head for guilt. There is only Miya. 

He’s been driven to insanity. Miya smells intoxicating and Kiyoomi buries his head in his neck, sucking bruises and occasionally pausing to admire the little sounds he’s trying so hard to bite back.

Miya is squirmy and Kiyoomi slides a palm under his shirt and presses against his abdomen. “Stay still,” he whispers into his ear. “You can move as much as you want later.”

He whimpers in response and grabs Kiyoomi’s face in both of his hands, cradling it before diving into another open-mouthed, hungry kiss. 

Kiyoomi does not make it out of the cab with his dignity – he barely makes it out with his life, but he counts an excessive amount of bills as Miya readjusts his clothing on the sidewalk outside of their sharehouse, and then he shuts the door and practically runs away.

“No reason to be embarrassed, Omi,” Miya croons. “We gave him a good show.”

“You’re absolutely shameless,” Kiyoomi sighs and Miya smirks. 

He sticks his tongue out. “Yer just as guilty as I am, tellin’ me all those sweet and dirty things. Are ya gonna make good on them?” 

“Why don’t you get inside and we’ll find out?”

Miya reaches back for Kiyoomi’s hand again and drags him inside. They go to Kiyoomi’s bedroom, because he’s sure Miya’s is going to be horrifying and that will ruin his entire mood. Miya shoves him back onto the bed and knocks their bodies together.  
  
“I like havin’ ya under me like this,” Miya says, voice reverent. “I’d like it even better if ya took yer clothes off.”

Kiyoomi wiggles out of his shirt and tosses it in the general direction of the hamper. Miya’s eyes rake down his body, eyes drooping as they fall lower and lower. 

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen,” Kiyoomi mutters, the smallest bit self-conscious. He knows he looks good. That’s obvious, but Miya’s gaze burns him like an open flame. 

“I’ll never get tired of lookin’,'' Miya mumbles and Kiyoomi can tell by his tone that he means it. Miya spews a lot of bullshit, speaks in a sing-song, teasing voice, flashes his hooded eyes and makes everyone around him fall in love, but sometimes, like this, he’s honest. 

It’s sobering. Kiyoomi reaches out and cups Miya’s face again. His eyes flutter closed and his breathing evens. He’s beautiful like this. He wonders how much time he’s wasted in his life not admiring how gorgeous Miya Atsumu is. He wants to appreciate it in high-definition, fully aware without any fuzziness around the edges.

“Miya,” he murmurs. “Let me take a shower first.”

“Okay, Omi,” he replies with a faraway smile. “I’ll be here.”

Kiyoomi kisses him once more, for good measure, lingering against his lips for longer than he means to, and when he finally pulls away to stand up, Miya curls in on himself and lets out a contented breath. 

“I’m just gonna rest my eyes,” he insists. “Then when ya get outta the shower, I’m gonna ride ya all night.” 

A minuscule shock courses through Kiyoomi’s body and he nods. “Stay awake for me then, Atsumu.”

“Atsumu,” he repeats, dreamy. “I like the way that sounds.”

“I’ll keep saying it.”

  
Kiyoomi showers as quickly as he possibly can, but in the depths of his drunken brain, he knows that it’s still not fast enough. When he gets back to his room, Atsumu is sound asleep, mouth open in a tiny ‘o’, absolutely at peace.

Kiyoomi smiles when he climbs into bed. He drapes a quilt over Atsumu and tucks it around him, then he crawls under the comforter and settles in, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off of Atsumu’s body. It’s comforting, soothing – something Kiyoomi could get used to. 

He rubs his thumb over Atsumu’s cheek. “Goodnight, Atsumu.”   
  


-x-

Kiyoomi always falls asleep freezing and wakes up too hot, but last night, he passed out encased in reassuring warmth and he woke up on fire.

“Atsumu,” he mutters, because he was not too drunk last night to be out of his mind. He remembers every press of Atsumu’s lips, every whispered word and every loud laugh. “You’re suffocating me.”

“Mmph,” Atsumu groans. “Don’t – please. I’m dyin’.”

“The drinking game was your fault. Suffer the consequences of your actions.” He wriggles away, slipping an arm free of the vice grip around his middle, and pushes Atsumu to the edge of the bed. He yelps.

“Omi! Have mercy!”

“You’re too warm.” 

“I’m meltin’ yer ice heart,” he insists, doubling down to nuzzle against Kiyoomi. Atsumu’s hands rest on Kiyoomi’s bare stomach and his lips press into the back of his neck, just under his hair. “Though I think I mighta done that already.”

“Don’t think I’m going soft for you,” Kiyoomi responds, although he knows he’s not fooling Atsumu or himself. He left all of his pride in that bar booth and so he rests his hands over Atsumu’s and intertwines their fingers. 

“You are soft,” Atsumu murmurs into his hair, then continues to mouth at the back of his neck. “I knew ya’d be like this. Ya just seem like the cuddly type – like a cat.”

“You’re the cat,” Kiyoomi grumbles, remembering the way Atsumu rubbed his face against his hand last night. His memories of the whole night are surprisingly vivid, and they play behind his closed eyelids now in flashes of technicolor – Atsumu with his hands gripping Kiyoomi’s waist, nipping at his collarbone, whining when Kiyoomi marked his throat with his mouth, teeth tracing over the thin, delicate skin. 

He wants to see them now, to confirm that last night was indeed real. Waking up with Atsumu clinging to him is reason enough to believe his recollection is solid, but still. He has to be sure. 

Kiyoomi squirms free of Atsumu’s clutches and turns around so they face each other. Atsumu’s bleary eyes widen in surprise and then settle into softness when he takes Kiyoomi in. He smiles, filled with warmth, and it turns Kiyoomi’s insides molten. 

Miya Atsumu is adorable. Who would’ve thought? 

He locates the bruises and traces them with his finger, saying nothing. Atsumu watches his every movement with bated breath, but even he, for once, has no words to say. Kiyoomi continues mapping Atsumu out, trailing his pointer finger from his neck to his cheek, to his lips. Atsumu parts them, just slightly.

“Omi,” he whispers. “I think there’s somethin’ we didn’t finish last night.” 

Kiyoomi hums in agreement. There is no fuzziness around the events from the previous night – he remembers Atsumu’s promise. “You said you were going to ride me all night.”

Atsumu snorts at that. “Well, the intention was there, I promise ya that.” 

Kiyoomi kisses his nose because it’s right there, and it gets the exact feedback he was looking for – a softness cascades over Atsumu’s face, and he makes a sweet sound in the back of his throat. 

“Is the offer still on the table?” Kiyoomi asks and Atsumu nods so quickly that it cracks his neck. He frowns.

“Yeah, yeah, just lemme – I’m gonna clean up first, ‘cause I’m gross, and I’m sorry for gettin’ in yer bed like this. I’ll wash yer sheets for ya after, and – ”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi interrupts him. He’s touched by the concern. It’s kind. Atsumu has always been the type to notice the little things about their teammates, zeroing in on all of their tells, their likes and dislikes, their quirks and their struggles. He finds them out so that he can take care to interact properly, so he can make sure everybody is wholly comfortable.

There are a lot of things Kiyoomi likes about Atsumu that he didn’t realize until now.

“Let’s shower together. I don’t mind taking another one.” 

They make it down the hallway to one of the bathrooms without alerting any of their teammates to what they’re doing. Kiyoomi doesn’t think it matters at this point – there was no way they made it out of that bar without someone noticing the fact that Kiyoomi couldn’t keep his tongue out of Atsumu’s mouth, but he doesn’t want anything distracting him from getting the rest of his clothes off. 

Kiyoomi pulls the door shut behind them and Atsumu crowds him against it, pressing their chests together and capturing Kiyoomi’s mouth in an open, heady kiss. 

It’s over before it can start and Atsumu smiles impishly. “I’ve gotta brush my teeth, I know, but I had to scratch the itch first.” 

Kiyoomi would abandon all hygiene standards for Atsumu to kiss him like that again, and isn’t that something. It should be scarier, to have these thoughts when he’s completely sober, but he finds that he welcomes them. 

Kiyoomi starts the shower while Atsumu brushes his teeth and then goes to stand by him at the mirror. He elbows him aside because Atsumu takes up the entirety of the sink and Atsumu shoves him right back. 

After he rinses, Atsumu steps back to let Kiyoomi take over and wraps his arms around his waist, resting his head on his shoulder. “This is kinda domestic.” 

Kiyoomi forgoes speaking in favor of continuing to brush, but he nods. It is domestic, and Kiyoomi _likes_ it. It’s a stark contrast to the night before — the desire is still present, draped over them both, suffocating, but it’s not as urgent. Kiyoomi wants to take his time, wants to indulge in Miya Atsumu in a way that’s outside of the norm of a standard hookup. 

He really does like him. 

“I didn’t really expect all this, to be honest,” Atsumu continues. “I thought we’d have a really drunken, sloppy fuckfest and then ya’d kick me out of yer bed in the morning.” 

Kiyoomi spits and assesses Atsumu with what he hopes is a thoroughly unimpressed gaze. “Is that what you want?”

“Nope, no, not at all, I want exactly this, thanks.” He plants a kiss in-between Kiyoomi’s shoulder blades. “I wanna get in the shower with ya, and I want ya to fuck me all mornin’, and then I wanna make breakfast with ya.”

“Okay.” Kiyoomi is decidedly satisfied with that idea. He pulls down his pants and his boxers and folds them neatly to place on the shelf next to the mirror, not missing the way Atsumu is ogling him without shame. 

“Fuck, Omi,” he whimpers. “I wanna put my mouth on ya.” 

Kiyoomi pretends that it doesn’t affect him, hopes Atsumu doesn’t see the full-body shiver that shoots through him, and shrugs before moving past him to step into the shower.

“Do it, then.”

Atsumu is right behind him before Kiyoomi can even get under the water. The stall isn’t big enough for two professional athletes, but that’s not a primary concern in Kiyoomi’s mind right now. He lets the spray cascade down his back as Atsumu crowds him, eyes lidded and hungrier than Kiyoomi has ever seen them. 

“I’m glad I fell asleep last night,” he breathes, right up against Kiyoomi’s lips. Water slides down over his shoulders and between them. Kiyoomi can’t look away from Atsumu’s gaze. “I wanna remember every part of this.”

Kiyoomi closes the distance. His hands find purchase wherever he can, but there’s so much of Atsumu that he wants to touch, to explore, to deface. He settles on his waist, for now, because he’s always been fascinated by its shape. Atsumu is in no way fragile, or dainty — he’s a six-foot tall monster of a man, but his waist can only be described as _pretty._

Atsumu follows suit with his lips but his hands take longer to adjust. They hover, fingertips ghosting over Kiyoomi’s back while he opens his mouth further, allowing Kiyoomi to kiss him deeper and deeper.

They end up against the shower wall, completely out of the way of the water, but Kiyoomi doesn’t need it to keep him warm. Atsumu is burning against him. He finally decides on gripping Kiyoomi by his wet curls, yanking tight, and Kiyoomi moans unabashedly into his mouth. 

It’s a fight, like much else in their life — a push and pull for the upperhand. Atsumu speeds ahead, but Kiyoomi levels him out, slowing their kisses and keeping the pace just a touch above lazy. Atsumu challenges him, pulling hard on his hair, and Kiyoomi retaliates by digging his nails into Atsumu’s hips. Kiyoomi learns quickly how to disarm Atsumu, figures out that just hearing his name whispered in his ear will leave him panting, that his lips anywhere near his neck makes him beg. 

Kiyoomi is rewarded with each discovery, drawing barely concealed whimpers and pleas from Atsumu’s pretty mouth. It’s a battle not just against Atsumu, but himself — Kiyoomi wants so badly to take and take and take anything that Atsumu is willing to give him, but he also doesn’t want the moment to pass.

There will be plenty of times like this in the future, Kiyoomi is sure of that now, but he’s always been a bit of a romantic, and this is his first time with Atsumu. 

Kiyoomi twirls them around so Atsumu is against the wall, and he starts his lips in a journey down the expanse of Atsumu’s neck, kissing over the fresh bruises from the night before. He licks at the dip in his collarbone, keeping his hands tight against Atsumu’s hips, trapping him against the tile, and then moves downward to give attention to his nipples.

Atsumu keens. It’s too loud, but once again, Kiyoomi is losing all reason. This time, he doesn’t even have the excuse of being drunk, but Atsumu melts away his inhibitions more than any alcoholic beverage ever could.

“You know, you can’t ride me in here.” Kiyoomi punctuates his sentence by taking Atsumu’s left nipple into his mouth and lazily lolling his tongue around it. Atsumu is squirming, too excited, too eager and Kiyoomi is having a hard time keeping his composure. “We can do that in my room.” 

“Yeah,” Atsumu grunts. “Yeah, okay, but we’re never gonna get outta here if ya keep doin’ that to me, _fuck._ ”

Kiyoomi smiles before sucking the nipple into his mouth. Atsumu hisses.

“C’mon, Omi,” he wheezes. “I can ride ya another time and ya can just fuck me into this wall. Please, yer _teasin’._ ” 

Kiyoomi pops off, admiring his work and Atsumu looks as if he may start throwing a temper tantrum. 

“How d’ya stay so put together? I’m gonna _die_.”

“You won’t,” Kiyoomi promises. He moves his hands leisurely up Atsumu’s body before abandoning him completely to reach for the shampoo. “We came in here to shower. Let’s do that first.”

“I think yer gettin’ off on this. On torturin’ me. I always knew you were evil but this is a new level. Yer gonna be the death of me.” 

It’s not an entirely false assessment. Kiyoomi _does_ like Atsumu like this, taking gulps of air to center himself and babbling like he can’t hold back the words. He’s a talker in general, but he clearly loses his filter when he’s worked up, and the words come out rushed and frantic and needy. It’s like music to Kiyoom’s ears. He turns him around and presses him further into the wall, then begins to wash Atsumu’s hair. 

It’s softer than Kiyoomi would think. He remembers very vividly sneering at it when they were in high-school, but Atsumu figured it out somewhere along the way. Now that Kiyoomi’s gotten his hands in it several times in the past twenty-four hours, he’s pretty sure he’s addicted to the feel. Atsumu clearly has no complaints, other than the hurried and pleading renditions of Kiyoomi’s name that he whines out as Kiyoomi takes his time, making sure his hair is properly lathered.

“Yer too slow, Omi,” he bites out. “I’m clean.”

“I know how much you care about your hair,” Kiyoomi says seriously, but he can’t hold back the smirk. At least Atsumu can’t see it. “You still have to wash your body, too.”

“I’ve got it,” Atsumu groans. He reaches blindly for the soap but Kiyoomi grabs it first. He guides Atsumu so that he’s standing under the water, and he reaches up on instinct to rinse the suds from his hair. 

“Let me.” There’s no rush, and Kiyoomi has hit his perfect stride. He’s in complete control of himself, of this situation, and he’s taking his time. It’s leisurely, how he rubs Atsumu down and he fully marvels at the way his eyes flutter shut. Atsumu is always giving – giving his best in his sets, giving one hundred percent in his serves, but now the tables have turned, and Atsumu is on the receiving end. Kiyoomi revels in it.

“Yer hands are fuckin’ magic, Omi,” Atsumu sighs. “But I wish ya’d touch me _more_.”

Kiyoomi keeps washing, but he trails one hand down past Atsumu’s chest to rest on his thigh. He kneads at the flesh, digs his fingernails into it. It’s appealing, the thought of marking Atsumu all over, with crescent indentations and purple hickeys. It’s possessive, familiar – Kiyoomi didn’t care who saw him at the bar last night, and he doesn’t care who sees his brand on him now. 

“What do I gotta do?” Atsumu pleads, voice an octave higher than it usually is. “I’ll do anythin’, Kiyoomi, please.”

Oh. Kiyoomi freezes and his eyes lock onto Atsumu. Heat blooms from his chest down to his groin, and his remaining composure shatters. 

That’s all it takes, he guesses. Kiyoomi’s name sounds sweet in Atsumu’s mouth and he wants to hear it again and again and again. He stops worrying about savoring the moment. He stops thinking entirely. Atsumu licks his lips, an unconscious movement, and Kiyoomi lurches towards him.

Atsumu engulfes his senses, and the kiss gets him back in the game. He takes Kiyoomi’s bottom lip between his teeth and bites down, nearly drawing blood, and Kiyoomi licks into his mouth. Their hands go from searching to frenetic and they spread suds over each other. Atsumu doesn’t give Kiyoomi a single moment of warning before he’s wrapping his slippery hand around his cock.

Kiyoomi would be embarrassed at the sound that comes out of his mouth if he had any sense of self-preservation left. Atsumu swallows it, and then moves to Kiyoomi’s neck as he pumps his cock, with just enough pressure to cause Kiyoomi to buck his hips up to meet each stroke. 

“I don’t wanna wait, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu croaks. “I want ya right here.” 

Kiyoomi can’t pretend that he has any sort of self-restraint to deny that, despite how much he’d love for Atsumu to ride him. They can save that for another day. 

“Get yourself ready for me, then.” 

“Oh, d’ya like to watch?” Atsumu teases, regaining his barings enough to be cheeky. Kiyoomi won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Yes,” he says, no hint of abashment. “I do like to watch you, Atsumu.”

Just like that, Kiyoomi has the upper hand again, though just barely, because Atsumu doesn’t stop touching him. He jerks him in earnest, sliding a finger over the head of his slit to smear the precum around the head of his cock, and Kiyoomi hisses. It’s an even playing field – it always is, with Atsumu.

Atsumu takes his free hand and reaches in between his legs, maintaining an eye contact with Kiyoomi that leaves him weaker at the knees than he’d like to admit. Kiyoomi hadn’t been lying to Atsumu – he does like to watch Atsumu. He has for the entirety of their time on MSBY together. Atsumu is a spectacle in normal light, but now he’s downright sinful. He’s beautiful, delicious, entirely captivating, and Kiyoomi barely notices the feather light touches against his own cock – he’s too busy watching Atsumu take himself apart. 

“Have you thought about this?” Kiyoomi asks, idly, distantly, in a voice that sounds different than his own. It’s breathy – demanding. “Have you fingered yourself to the thought of me fucking you?”

Atsumu moans and bites down on his own lip. Kiyoomi takes the hint and kisses him, pinning him into the wall. All of the soap has washed down the drain but the droplets that cling to Atsumu’s naked body adorn him like a painting. He pulls away to whisper, “I asked you a question.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been thinkin’ about it for so long, Kiyoomi – fuck.” He tightens his grip on him, and Kiyoomi chokes out a gasp. He’s not going to last long if Atsumu keeps building him up like this. “That’s why I had to get ya to kiss me at the bar – couldn’t stand waitin’ for this anymore.” 

Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu inserts another finger into himself. It’s not the best view, but he can use his imagination to fill in the gaps. Kiyoomi will get a real show from him another time. Right now, he just wants Atsumu to keep talking.

“Tell me what you’ve thought about, specifically.”

Atsumu lets out a breathless laugh. “All sorts of things.” He whimpers as he readjusts himself, adding a third finger. “Thought about ya fuckin’ me in the locker rooms, after everyone has already left practice. Thought about how yer dick would feel in the back of my throat. Thought about ya cryin’ out my name as ya come inside of me.”

Kiyoomi moans and lets his head fall back. Atsumu has picked up the pace, both hands moving swiftly, expertly, and Kiyoomi knows that if he doesn’t get on with it, this is going to be over before it can begin.

“We can do all of those things,” Kiyoomi promises, and he gently guides Atsumu away from him and so that he’s once again facing the wall. “One at a time.”

He lines himself up, gripping Atsumu’s hips once more. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Atsumu cries. His arms are braced over his head, elbows leaned into the tile and it’s so inviting, so depraved, that Kiyoomi can’t hesitate a single second longer. He pushes in, slowly, then all at once, and Atsumu clenches around him so tightly that a breath is punched from Kiyoomi’s lungs. It’s an all-encompassing heat, devouring him, dizzying him. 

“Omi, Omi, Kiyoomi, move, move, move,” Atsumu begs. “Fuck, ya feel good inside me. Ya feel better than I imagined. Please, fuck me.” 

Kiyoomi inhales a shaky breath, breathes Atsumu in – he’s intoxicating. Kiyoomi is going to become dependent on this. He pulls nearly all of the way out and slams back in, smacking his chest against Atsumu’s back. The water sloshes between them, but Kiyoomi keeps a firm grip on Atsumu’s hips, keeping him in place as he drives into him.

Kiyoomi is ruined. He’s never going to be able to get Atsumu out of his head. He’s going to have to do this again and again for the rest of his life. He takes him perfectly, blessing him with beautiful mewls and moans as Kiyoomi shoves him further into the shower wall. 

He doesn’t have the stamina for this, not right now, not when it’s someone as enticing and mind-boggling as Atsumu, not when he meets each thrust like they’re perfectly in sync. They are. They’re always on the same wave, whether on the court or off. 

Kiyoomi thinks he must love Miya Atsumu, and it’s with that thought that his hips stutter and he bites down on Atsumu’s shoulder as he comes. Atsumu follows soon after, his own hand working frantically until he’s crying out Kiyoomi’s name, no regard at all for his volume.

He sinks to the floor afterwards and water smacks him in the face.

“Ya killed me,” he announces. Kiyoomi snorts. He’s on a blissful high, electrified and enchanted by the man beneath him. He reaches out a hand. 

“Come on, we’ll get cleaned up for real this time.” 

They take another thirty minutes in the shower. Kiyoomi keeps getting distracted by the need to kiss Atsumu silly, and Atsumu gladly indulges him. They probably use up all of the hot water in the entire sharehouse, but neither of them care. They towel off and Atsumu combs out Kiyoomi’s curls with his fingers.

“Let’s go back to bed,” Kiyoomi says. “My head is starting to hurt.”

“Really?” Atsumu muses. “I think I could run a marathon. I think ya fucked the hangover right out of me.” 

Kiyoomi gives him a dry look and Atsumu smiles sheepishly. “I could definitely stay in bed all day too, though – let’s do that.”

Kiyoomi opens the door, then leans in to give Asumu one more kiss, just because he can, but he’s interrupted by a loud and exaggerated groan.

“Fucking finally, you two!”

Kiyoomi turns at once and blinks at – half of the team, all assembled in front of the bathroom. Meian is sitting against the wall, staring at nothing with a hollow expression on his face. Hinata and Bokuto are right in front of the door with their arms crossed, grinning like they just won the Olympics.

Inunaki appears to be considering murder. “Don’t – don’t do that in the showers!”

“There’s another one down the hall,” Kiyoomi points out. “Why did none of you use that one?”

“There’s a leaky pipe,” Meian says miserably. “I told you that in the group chat, which you _never_ read.”

“Oooh, yup, I do remember that,” Atsumu chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “Well, ya didn’t have to sit around like a bunch of voyeurs.”

“They wanted to ambush you so they could yell at you but then you took _forever,_ ” Hinata explains. 

“We’re really happy for you, though!” adds Bokuto. 

“Yeah, thrilled,” Inunaki deadpans. 

Meian sighs. “I’m never going to be able to unhear that.” 

“We’ll be quieter next time,” Kiyoomi promises. He takes Atsumu’s hand and intertwines their fingers. “But I still suggest you don’t linger near my room for the rest of the day.”

“Omi’s shameless!” Hinata cracks up, nearly doubling over. “Tsumu is ruining you!”

“Ah, ya’ve got no idea,” Atsumu mutters. Kiyoomi squeezes his hand once and then pulls him away, smirking at the apologies that Atsumu throws over his shoulder. 

He’s ruining him indeed.


End file.
